


Respite

by anneapocalypse



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escape, M/M, Mental Illness, Multi, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three guys, two AIs, and a pilot take a desperate shot at freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Multiple inspirations for this piece. First, [Larissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Larissa)’s AU in which York breaks Wash out of Freelancer. Also strongly influenced by one of my favorite Fallout fics, [_And America Does If America Says It’s So_](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2868.html?thread=3075892#t3075892) (if you’re a Fallout fan you really should give it a read; it’s stunning).

On the first day, they slip into the _Mother_ ’s shadow on a stolen Pelican.

 

In the cabin, three agents sit close in a row.

In the cockpit, Flight Officer Lacey DuFresne, known to her comrades as Four Seven Niner, sits with her hand on the throttle, waiting. A green AI projection hovers over her dash.

 

“Mark,” says Delta.

“Sync,” says Four Seven Niner.

“I have a high degree of confidence we will be able to complete this maneuver.”

“You didn’t even blink this time.”

“No,” Delta replies. “I did not. Prepare to engage thrusters on my mark.”

“Hang on to your oh-shit bars!” Four Seven Niner calls back over the intercom. “It’s about to get bumpy.”

 

“Bumpy” doesn't quite encompass the effects of jetting out of a frigate’s blind spot in a Pelican half a second before it jumps into subspace. Even for Four Seven Niner, it’s one of the more skull-rattling experiences of her life.

The jump kicks them hard enough she doesn’t need to throttle up until well after the turbulence dies down, but when it does, she pushes hard. The _Mother_ will have detected their departure immediately. Their only reprieve is the time it will take her to come out of subspace and send a team in pursuit, and during that respite they'd best get as far away as possible.

 

“We’re clear,” she calls back on the intercom.

"Good to move?” comes North’s voice.

“Affirmative. Everybody okay back there?”

“Wash is gonna need to lie down. He’s got a pretty bad migraine.”

Four Seven leaves the intercom on. The others are too distracted to notice.

 

The Pelicans are designed for mission drops, not road trips. Two rows of seats line the cabin walls, with the safety bars that swing down to lock in place. Not much in the way of comfort. Or privacy. The guys had the foresight to swipe a couple of field bedrolls from storage. That, and all the MREs they could carry. It’s going to be a long flight to somewhere even remotely safe for them to dock. North said they all bunked together on _Mother of Invention_ so they’re used to close quarters. Four Seven is pretty sure there’s more to it than that, but she doesn’t press it.

She hears the sounds of shifting, shuffling as the guys move. Words too soft for her to make out.

 

“Is Agent Washington in a lot of pain?” It’s the unnervingly childlike voice of North’s AI.

North takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m afraid he is.”

“Can we help?”

“We’re trying.”

“Please tell me if I can help in any way.”

“You’ll be the first to know, T.”

 

It’s when he manages to fall asleep that things get bad. Screaming bad. Four Seven’s so startled she pounds the door switch and swings around on instinct.

They’re all three of them crammed in a corner, North and York both wrapped around Wash who's shaking with sobs muffled against York’s shoulder, both of them holding onto him for dear life and murmuring words she can’t make out. No one even looks up.

Four Seven swivels around slowly and closes the door, hands gone cold and a hollow feeling in her stomach, and turns off the intercom for the next few hours.


	2. Chapter 2

On the second day, she hears York and North arguing in low voices.

“We gotta take him somewhere.”

“We talked about this . . .”

“He _needs_ medical attention.”

“York, I know. I _know_. But right now we can’t stop anywhere long enough to get him the kind of help he needs.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” York sighs. “It’s just killing me, seeing him like this.”

North’s voice softens when he says, “I know, man. I know, but we gotta stay strong right now . . .”

She hears the click of armor meeting armor, and the rest is muffled.

 

Four Seven isn’t sure what she was expecting—the rumors made it out to be really bad—but so far, Wash seems pretty lucid. At times almost normal. When York and North pull up some funny cat videos downloaded from the net to watch with him, he even laughs. An unfiltered, distinctly Wash laugh, and though there's no denying the weariness in his voice, that laugh is good to hear.

“He seems like he’s doing okay,” she comments to York when he comes to the cockpit to check in.

“He has . . . episodes.” York shakes his head. “Never know what’s gonna trigger them. Even he doesn’t know. Here.” He offers a foil-wrapped packet. “Brought you some dinner. Or breakfast, whatever. Gonna take a break anytime soon? You’ve been going all night.”

“So’ve you.” She takes the packet, and unfastens her helmet, slipping it off. “Thanks. I’ll push a few more hours and then catch a nap.”

York’s brow furrows. “Just a nap?”

“I can sleep when we get to a darker spot.” She tears open the meal packet. “Damn, are those supposed to be potatoes?”

"I have no idea." York squints at the mess. “Looks kinda like North’s hair after he spends too much time in the pool.”

“I heard that,” North calls from the back.

"Shoulda brought some freeze-dried bacon." Seven digs in with her plastic spoon. “Hey, if Wash could use some distraction, and he’s feeling up to it? I’ve got a project for him.”

 

When Agent Texas cornered her checking their fuel, Four Seven almost thought they were finished. Caught and very possibly dead. Whatever explanation they could come up with for smuggling Wash out of Recovery, knocking out the security sensors in the hangar, and preparing to steal a Pelican, it probably wasn't going to impress the Director.

“So you’re going through with this,” Tex said, helmet cocked to the side, hands on her hips.

Four Seven’s hand didn’t even bother going to her pistol. Every muscle in her body knew she couldn’t get a draw on Agent Texas. Mercifully shielded from view by her flight helmet, her eyes scanned the hangar for some kind of potential distraction, anything. The guys were on board already and the cockpit door was like three goddamn feet away from where she was standing.

“Tex—”

“You’re idiots,” Tex said.

“We know,” said Four Seven.

“Good. Then take this and get the fuck out of here.”

Seven stared at the device Tex had just shoved into her hands. “Is this from your armor? How did you—”

“Wash oughta be able to rig it up,” Tex cut her off. “See if he can find a way to amplify the field to cover the Pelican. It’ll increase your odds from _zero,_ anyway.”

“I guess I should say thank you,” Four Seven said finally.

“I _guess_ you should get the fuck out of here.” Tex’s helmet tilted forward ever so slightly in what Four Seven could only imagine was a glare. “South’s latest hissy fit isn’t going to distract everyone forever.”

“We won’t forget this, Texas,” Four Seven said as Tex turned.

Tex glanced over her shoulder. “You should be more concerned about living long enough to forget it. Now _go_.”

 

"Yeah. Yeah, there's gotta be a way we can . . ." Wash trails off, turning the unit over in his hands. He's like that sometimes, speaking in half-sentences and broken thoughts. "Think if . . . huh." He mutters something else, something she doesn’t catch, then looks over his shoulder. "North, you know how Theta was . . . how he amplified your shield that one time? What if . . ."

North comes forward, nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, good thought."

"What are you suggesting?" Four Seven asks warily.

“Theta, take a look at this.” North’s AI glides over his shoulder toward Wash on his holographic skateboard.

Wash tenses, hands tightening on the module. His eyes go a little glassy.

Theta freezes. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

“Nah, Theta, you’re fine. One sec.” North closes the distance between himself and Wash, and Theta drops behind him again, hanging anxiously in the air—at least, that unsteady flicker looks like anxiety to Four Seven. North rests both hands on Wash’s shoulders, looking him directly in the eye. “Wash.”

Wash blinks, then swallows. “I. Sorry. Sorry, I’m . . .”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” North moves one hand to gently take the cloaking unit from Wash’s hands. “I’m gonna take this to the back for a few and have Theta take a look at, see what he thinks.”

Wash nods. “Okay.”

And then it’s just her and Wash alone in the cockpit.

Fuck.

She never was good at making small talk. On the missions, sure, banter was easy ‘cause everything was moving quick and the cabin was packed with agents talking mission talk and snarking on each other and Four Seven could snark right along with ‘em so talk was never a problem. But right here?

She has no idea what the fuck to say to Wash.

He backs up against the far side of the doorframe, crosses his arms tight over his chest and stares at the floor. From the looks of it he’s got no idea what to say to her, either. ‘Least they’re in the same boat. Heh.

Four Seven studies the dash readouts until North comes back.

“Theta thinks if we can hook it up, he can run it.” He pauses when his eyes land on Wash, in the corner, and Four Seven feels a slight pang of guilt.

North coaxes Wash off the wall, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and the two of them disappear into the cabin with a low exchange of words Seven feels awkward enough to deliberately tune out, which in her line of work is a thing you learn to do.

 

A little while later, York ducks into the cockpit again. “How’s it going up here?”

“Fine. Wash all right? Hope I didn’t—”

“Nah, it’s not anything you did. Hard to remember sometimes, when he gets like that, but it’s not us.” York runs a hand absently through his hair, lacking his signature flip up at the front. Hair gel doesn’t fall under _essentials only_. “It’s not . . . personal.”

Four Seven gets the feeling he’s not talking about her anymore. York’s fidgeting like he’s got something else to say though, so she waits for him to spit it out.

“You have a cousin who’s a medic, don’t you?”

“Yeah, a field medic. . . . He wouldn’t be able to help Wash, York. He doesn’t have that kind of training. If I thought he could . . .”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, because she’s suddenly not sure if it’s true. _Would_ she? Would she drag Frank into this? It’s a moot point, anyway. They’re not that close, and she hasn’t heard from him in months, doesn’t even know where he’s stationed now. Reflected in the glass, Wash is curled up in the far corner, North at his side with an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Dimly against the black she sees North press a kiss to Wash’s temple.


	3. Chapter 3

On the third day, they start using names.

 _David_ calls Wash back to reality. It makes sense. _Wash_ is complicated, _Wash_ means Freelancer, means Epsilon, but David just means David. Means life before. Means _him_.

Before long, it’s not just _David_ , but _Rich_ and _Jason_ too.

She sticks to North and York for them. With him she hesitates, not sure what’s okay, avoids calling him anything just to be safe.

None of them know her name and she doesn’t offer it. By now they just call her Seven.

 

The guys have fallen into a routine. York and North seem to take shifts with Wash, never sleeping at the same time. Wash himself doesn’t sleep much. She doesn’t blame him.

He’s up enough to spend an hour or so getting the cloaking unit rigged to the Pelican’s power. Theta has complete control over it, which Four Seven’s not thrilled about, but he’s eager to reassure her (while sliding up and down her dashboard on his holographic skateboard) that he’ll do a good job, that he’ll be there the very microsecond she calls.

The cloak means she can sleep with less fear of detection. Still makes her nervous; the unit’s not designed for a ship, and while it covers their visibility and reduces their heat signature, it doesn’t mask emissions. If a ship gets close enough, they’ll sniff out the Pelican in no time. Trick is to not let them get close enough. Seven sets the sensors to alert at the slightest sign of anything. Still, it’s worlds better than hanging visible in space. Even the dark regions aren’t safe, not with Recovery after them.

 

She wakes with the distinct sense she’s not alone in the cockpit, and as her eyes focus she starts at the sight of Wash just standing a couple feet from her, staring out in space.

“Shit, man, you scared me,” Seven mumbles, shifting herself upright in her chair.

Wash jumps at her voice and stammers, “Sorry, I— I’ll go, I didn’t mean to bother you, I just—”

“Hey, hey, take it easy.” Seven tugs her hair band off her wrist and gathers her fluffy mass of dark brown curls back into their usual knot. “You’re fine, I just wasn’t expecting—”

“I’ll go—”

“You don’t have to.” Seven glances over the console. All dark, all clear. “Did you need something?”

“Nah. I just . . .” Wash swallows, runs a hand haggardly through his hair. “Just wanted to see the stars.”

“It’s gotta get stifling back there.” Seven brings the engines back to life, feels the low rumble begin. “Feel free to come up here when you need a change of scenery. Or, you know, _any_ scenery.”

“Heh. Thanks.” Wash is still staring out into the stars, gray eyes wide and entranced. Finally he murmurs quietly, “Long way home.”

She’s not sure what he means by that, but after a moment she ventures, “You’re an Earth kid, right?”

“Yeah. Iowa.”

“What’s that like?”

“Lotta cornfields.”

“Heh.” Seven brings the thrusters online, and the Pelican glides forward.

“Where are you from?” Wash asks, and then quickly adds, “I mean, if—if that’s—I—sorry, you don’t have to—”

“Relax, kid. I asked you first, remember?” Seven glances at him, tosses him a smile. “I’m from all over. Colonies. Military brat. Grew up on air force bases with my mom. Always wanted to fly. Got my wish. Couldn’t ask for much more.”

“Even now?”

He says it soft, but it lands blunt all the same.

“Even now,” Seven says.

Wash is quiet for a moment, then asks huskily, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’re you doing this? Why’re you helping us?”

“I got eyes. I’ve been watching how everything’s been going down in Freelancer for a long time now. Shit’s bad. It’s no secret.” She shrugs. “Lot of people getting hurt. And I don’t see how it’s winning us the war. Just dropping good people left and right. Not okay with me. When my mom was in the service it was never like this—no one got left behind, _sacrificed_ , there wasn’t this deliberate _splintering_ , that fucking board—how are you supposed to work as a team with that hanging over you? That shit just didn’t happen, and if it did, it wasn’t _okay_.”

“Huh.” Wash’s brow furrows. “Yeah. CT tried to . . . tell me, before . . .” He sighs heavily. “I thought she was wrong, I—thought . . . maybe if I’d listened, she . . .”

“Don’t go there, kiddo. You can’t blame yourself for that. For any of it. You got sent to Freelancer young,” Seven points out gently. “You never got to spend as much time in a standard branch of the military, but . . . ask North, it’s not supposed to be like this. Like that.” She shakes her head. “Point is, I wanted out too. You guys just gave me the final kick.”

She hears Wash sigh again.

“What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been so much trouble for everyone. For them. And now for you.”

“Way those two look at you, seems to me they don’t think of you like that.”

“I don’t know why,” Wash says, sounding choked.

Seven turns to look at him. “Yeah, you do.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Wash. _Yeah._ You _do_.”

His tone is strained, angry. “You think that makes it _easier?_ You think that makes me _happier_ being a stone around both their necks?”

“Don’t. You start thinking that way—look, let me put it to you like this. What they’re doing for you, you’d do it for either of them, right?”

“Well, _yeah_.”

“So take it easy on yourself.” She glances at him again. “And for the record, nobody put a gun to my head. I’m here because I chose to be. All right?”

A silence hangs between them for a few moments.

“Thank you,” Wash says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Seven swallows, trying to ignore that hollow feeling creeping into her stomach again. “Don’t mention it.”


	4. Chapter 4

By the fourth day she’s gotten pretty good at picking up on the signs. If Wash starts rubbing his neck a lot, or his forehead, if his eyes go glassy and unfocused or he stops answering, if he starts shivering or mumbling under his breath, he’s probably slipping into one of those _episodes_. York and North watch him closely, and one or both of them’s always at the ready to hold him until it passes.

In his more lucid moments, he reaches for them. In dreams and waking terrors, sometimes, he calls _that_ name, the one that after the incident on the training floor, none of the _Mother_ 's crew dared speak. The one that still sends flashes of pain across the faces of the other two. One particular time he cries out, York's face crumbles in a way she's never seen, a look of such hurt and despair she feels almost sick for seeing. North wordlessly gathers him into his arms, and Seven closes the door with a tap of the switch.

 

“I have a contact,” she tells North later, when he comes to check in.

“What do you mean, a contact?”

“A friend. I have a friend on _Angel_ who might be able to help Wash.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“It’s a risk. A huge one. You need to weigh that risk against how badly you think Wash needs a doctor. If we try to sneak him onto _Angel_ . . . I trust my friend, but it’s a big station.”

North nods slowly.

“You’re telling me this and not York.”

She meets his eyes. “Yeah. Figured you’d have the cooler head about it.”

“Why do you figure that?”

Seven pauses warily. “Am I wrong?”

North shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. “York's had a rough go of it, yeah—especially after what he went through with Lina, you know how tight they were—"

Seven bites her tongue. It's probably not the best moment to point out that _she_ was pretty tight with Carolina, too, before everything went to hell.

"But we made a promise, the three of us. We're in this together. No secrets, no lies, and no one left behind. Anything we decide, we decide together.”

She nods. “Fair enough.”


	5. Chapter 5

On the fifth day, the Sabre shows up on her sensors.

Expected. Three and a half solid days of fly time through dark territory, mining colonies and the like. They had their window. And a solid piece of luck. Shit runs out.

“Well, fuck,” Seven mutters under her breath. “Helmet up and secure, boys. We got company.”

She hears York’s “Roger!” and the scramble for seats.

They’re cloaked, such as it is, but that won’t help if the Sabre picks up their emissions, which she probably already has.

Delta appears over her dash. “If I may offer a suggestion—”

“If it’s ‘go dark,’ I got it, D, thanks. This ain’t my first rodeo,” Seven says drily, pulling the Pelican to a full stop. “Powering down. Theta, can you reroute more power to the cloak to cool us off?”

“Sure can!” Theta chirps.

“I also suggest that you leave communications online,” says Delta. “In the likely event that the incoming ship is pursuing us, they will attempt to negotiate surrender before attacking.”

“Nice of them.”

“Recovery personnel will have orders to retrieve all equipment intact if possible.”

“Yeah. I was being sarcastic.”

“I work with Agent York. I assure you I am familiar with sarcasm.”

The interior of the Pelican dims to shadows and held breaths.

The Sabre draws closer. And they wait.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Seven mutters. “She’s slowing. We’re spotted. Being hailed—”

_This is Recovery One. Stand down and prepare to be boarded or we will open fire. Repeat: stand down or you will be destroyed._

A pause, and then:

_Nice to see_ you _again, Lacey._

The transmission ends in all-too-familiar snicker.

“Motherfucker,” she hears from York.

And from North, “Oh my god.”

“Prepare for evasive maneuvers—”

“Let her on,” North interrupts. “Let me talk to her. Let me try.”

“Is that a consensus?”

York takes a deep breath. “Worth a shot.”

“Corners,” says North. “Seven, we need you back here. Wash can hold the cockpit.”

“No.”

“Dave—”

“No fucking way,” Wash says coldly. “If she thinks she’s gonna drag me back there, she’s going to fucking look me in the eye when she does it.”

“Nobody’s dragging you back anywhere,” York says.

“Damn fucking right,” says Wash.

Seven draws a deep breath. “Recovery One, this is Four Seven Niner. We are standing down. Repeat, we are standing down.”

_Smart choice, Four Seven Niner. Prepare to be boarded._

A deathly silence falls over the cabin. Seven draws her pistol. And they wait.

They hear the distinct thunk of magnetized boots hitting the top of the Pelican. Climbing into the airlock. Sealing the outer hatch. Pounding on the inner one. “Drop your weapons and open the fuck up.”

“Professional,” North says under his breath.

“Weapons down. Everyone. Delta, confirm.”

There’s a pause.

“Everyone present is unarmed,” Delta says. “Excepting yourself, of course.

“Now,” says North in a low voice, rifle raised.

Seven reaches for the button with her off hand. The hatch is out of view of the cockpit, but from the clash of boots hitting the metal floor, it sounds like she doesn’t bother with the ladder. From her vantage, Seven can just see the barrel of a heavy pistol trained on York’s corner.

“Fuck.” The surprise and irritation is evident in her voice. “How’d you get him to lie?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Wash says flatly.

“Some of which you probably should’ve asked about before you took this mission,” North adds. His voice is soft, level, not at all like pleading and yet . . . exactly like that. “It doesn’t have to go down this way, Ro.”

“No. It doesn’t.” A pause. “There’s an easy solution to this, and you know what it is.”

“Ro—”

“Give me Theta.”

_“What?”_

“Give me Theta, and I’ll disappear. Command will never see any of us again.”

“If you’re just gonna run anyway,” York interjects tersely, “why do you want an AI so goddamn bad?”

“Same reason you do.”

“You’re wrong, Ro.” North’s voice rises a little. “They’re not just equipment. They’re sentient, they _feel_ things—”

“Fine, if it’s Theta’s _feelings_ you’re so worried about? Give me Delta.”

A longer pause.

“No,” York says.

“Is that what this is all about?” North asks quietly. “Getting an AI? That’s it?”

“That’s _it?_ ” South hisses, and the pistol shifts toward her brother. “You think this is a game? You think you can win this like you won all those training scenarios? They were _designed_ for you to win. You’re all _idiots_.” There’s a pause, and then she sneers, “That does include you, Lacey, in case you were wondering.”

Seven says nothing. Holds her pistol steady.

“We’re not going back,” York says levelly.

“Of course you aren’t.” South snorts. “We don’t need you. We just need your ar—”

The blast from York’s shotgun rings through the Pelican, followed by the thud of an armored body hitting the floor.

“Rich, I’m sorry.” York’s tone is lead-heavy. “I’m so sorry.”

North’s out of his corner, at his sister’s side frantically calling her name, Seven’s lost track of where everyone else is and then Delta’s in front of her saying, “Agent South’s recovery beacon has activated. I would advise we take evasive action before her ship opens fire,” and Seven snaps back to attention, powers up the Pelican and throttles up, just the alarm starts to blare.

"North," Seven calls sharply into the confusion at her back. “North, I’m sorry, but we need you right now, they’re firing guided missiles, we _need_ your shield _now_ —”

“Can we return fire?” Wash calls.

“On a Sabre? Waste of missiles—”

“Can you shoot theirs down then—”

“They’ve got a lot more than we do, I’m not playing that game. North, you’re our only shot here—”

“I’m on it,” North calls back shakily, and she hears boots on the ladder. Thank god. Seven can only punch the throttle so hard and those missiles are closing fast.

“We have to space her,” York says urgently. “Rich. We have to. Her beacon—”

“I know, I _know_ ,” North says desperately. “Just—fucking do it, I can’t—”

“York, Wash, cockpit, now!” Seven barks. “Theta, I know you’re gonna need to drop the cloak, just focus on the shield, we’ve gotta deflect those missiles. The _second_ we’re clear, I need you to raise the cloak again. Hopefully I can get us out of range before they can re-lock.”

“Got it!” Theta calls just as North climbs into the airlock, and the inner hatch seals.

“Opening rear hatch.”

And the cabin depressurizes, just as the three missiles hit North’s domed energy shield.

It shakes them hard, but it also pushes them considerably off their present course, which in this case is handy, and Seven drops the nose, and closes the rear hatch again just as Theta sings “Cloak’s up!” in his high, hopeful voice.

“North, you in?” Seven calls.

“I’m in.”

The missile-lock alarm has ceased.

Seven punches the throttle, and they fly like they’ve got hell on their heels.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s hours before anyone talks again, hours before they all remember to breathe regularly, longer before the guys stop checking their six for pursuit. They’ve shaken the Sabre, for now, but her pilot will pick up South, they’ll recover her intel . . . someone else will come. If not today, then tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day. There will always be someone coming.

Wash curls up in a corner. When York comes near him he only shakes his head and hugs himself harder.

 

Some time later York wanders into the cockpit.

“How’s North doing?”

“About as well as you’d expect, considering.” York sighs heavily. “He’s in pretty rough shape. Talking with Theta right now.”

“Does that help, talking to them?”

“For us, yeah.”

“I was surprised you guys kept your AIs,” Seven says cautiously. “After what happened to Wash . . . and Lina . . . figured you might want to just cut and run.”

“Not all the fragments were unstable.” York shrugs. “People are gonna want to generalize about what happened, but it really wasn’t all bad. Delta’s . . . honestly, I gripe at him but I don’t know what I’d do without him anymore. Rich feels the same—North, I mean—eh, whatever. Point is, without Delta and Theta, we might not’ve figured out what was happening to Wash until it was too late. Theta could sense him going downhill before anyone, and Delta . . . Delta was able to figure out why. And what it might mean.”

“What do you mean, ‘what it might mean’?”

“How much have you actually heard about Epsilon?”

“Just that he went nuts insides Wash’s head.”

“Yeah.” York pauses. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“If you don’t want to tell me . . .”

“Let’s put it this way. Because of Epsilon, Dave knows things he wasn’t supposed to know. Things he could be killed for. And it’s only a matter of time before they figure out what he knows. If they haven’t already. They sent him in for emergency removal . . . but then they wouldn't let him out of Recovery. Wouldn't let anyone see him. I broke us in the next night after training, just so we could talk to him, make sure he was okay, and . . . " York shakes his head. "Well, he wasn't okay. Not at all. And they weren't doing a fucking thing to help him, just running tests and keeping him locked up and we could tell he was terrified of something, something more than the AI but it was all confused . . . we just knew it was bad.”

She nods, thinks briefly of her friend on _Angel_. Won’t be any more talk of going there, not now.

“So that's when . . . well, that's when we worked out a plan. And then we came to you.”

“And this stuff he knows . . .”

York pauses for a long moment. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you more, but . . . realistically, if we do get hauled in, the three of us are dead. You might still have a chance, if they think we forced you. If they think you don’t know anything.”

She snorts. “You got hopes, kid.”

“It’s worth it to us to better your odds, if we can. You gave up everything for us, Seven. It’s the least we can do.”

“I appreciate it, but . . .” She shrugs. “You heard what she said, they don’t need us. They certainly don’t need me. ‘Sides, I’m in this with you. If this ship’s going down, I’m going down with it.”

“You have no idea how much that means to us,” York says quietly.

That’s probably true, so she doesn’t argue. Still, in the back of her mind, she knows—well, she’s never once asked them if they know what they’re doing, if they think they’ll regret this, if they understand that they’ll never get their lives back from this, not any of them. She knows there’s not much choice in what they did. It is what it is, and what they’re doing is all any of them can do with what is.

“I almost did it, you know.” York turns, staring out into the black. “Almost gave her Delta. I thought, at least she couldn’t hurt him, you know? Not the way she could hurt Theta. She leaves, we keep Wash safe, everyone walks out alive.”

“And then he . . . he stopped me. Said there was ‘a high probability she would continue to pursue us after acquiring an AI.’ And that . . .” York swallows. “With him at her disposal, she might succeed.” He draws a deep breath, lets it out heavily. “Delta drives me a little crazy sometimes with all his probabilities, but the thing is, he’s usually right.”

“He’d turn on you like that? Thought you two were tight.”

“It’s not like that. It’s . . . hard to explain. Delta _is_ logic; it’s what he’s made of. He’s not programmed for things like loyalty. ‘Programmed’ isn’t really the right word, but you know what I mean. He’d never turn on me while he’s with me, but if he was taken, and put in someone else . . . he wouldn’t be able to _not_ help them.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” York tilts his head to the side, cracking his neck. “I should go check on them.”

“Go ahead. And hey . . .” Seven glances over her shoulder. “You guys can call me Lacey.”

 

Maybe a half hour after York leaves, North appears in the doorway. “Hey,” he says in a low, tired voice. “Mind if I take a breather up here?”

“Have a seat if you want,” Lacey nods to the empty copilot seat behind her. “How’re you doing?”

North slides into the seat with a sigh.

“It was only going to end one way,” he says heavily. “All three of us knew that. And Recovery knew, when they sent her.”

She can see his reflection, his hand balling into a fist. His voice tightens with anger as he continues.

“They send her alone after us—three against one, two AIs against none? They knew—they _knew_ she’d never survive close-range against us. Knew she’d have to board us to salvage our equipment. And when she died . . . they could follow her beacon. Probably promised her an AI if she succeeded. Hell, they probably told her she could keep both of ours. She’d take that bait. Rowena and her goddamned ego . . .” North unclenches his fist and rubs his forehead wearily. “They were done with her. That’s all this was.”

She's seen enough in her years of combat to know how these things go, and North's right smack in the denial phase right now. He still thinks he can logic his way around this. It's going to hit him hard, tomorrow or the next day, or the next, but it'll happen. What happened today, he’s going to carry it for the rest of his days.

No need to say that. Or anything else. Lacey doesn't figure she's in a position to pretend any understanding, seeing as she's never even had a sibling. Or been in love.

North's still talking. “I always thought being a twin was a pretty great thing. Got a built-in best friend, someone who knows you inside and out, someone who’s always got your back, always, even when they’re pissed at you, even if they hate you a little sometimes . . .” His eyes look unfocused, staring into the black, and Lacey knows he’s talking more to himself than to her. “And here I am, knowing we came this damn close . . . because of her. Because of me.” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head in a helpless kind of way. “I could never imagine how I’d ever live without her, but now . . . I think I didn’t know how to live with her.”

There’s an _It’s not your fault_ on the tip of Lacey’s tongue but she swallows it.

She wonders if North will be the one in the middle tonight.

 

And later when it’s gone quiet again in the cabin, when she glances back to check on them, sure enough she sees them all puppy-piled in a heap the way they do, Dave and Jason collapsed on either side of Rich, and his fingers tangled in Dave’s hair, all three of them out cold for once. Lacey taps the door closed to give them some privacy.

They’re going to be running for a long, long time—let them rest while they can.


End file.
